Carrington
Carrington by debgrant
A bag of boyish flesh was born a Carrington.
His mother called him Richard.
He became an astronomer.
His father owned a brewery in Britain
and hoped his namesake would serve the Church,
but the boy saw service outward not within.
The name his father gave him became
the name of a celestial event, a curiosity, a connection
between a burp of burning gases on a distant sphere,
aurora borealis and aurora australis barn dancing,
and the sparks of fire on new-fangled switchboards
three rocks away in 1859.
The sun still burps. And pukes and spews.
If Carrington’s burp happened today,
Our astronauts would feel the danger first.
The satellites that carry our messages in electronic saddlebags
from cell to cell would halt to their knees in the desert of space.
Transformers that form a power grid across an urban plain
would explode from the strain of particles pounding.
And all the bags of flesh on the planet would be left in the dark,
without light or heat or a way to communicate or eat. Some tiny way to ignite
and harness and contain a flame might buy them time, but not
answer the question, “How long will this last?”
We are such fragile bags of flesh.
Carrington’s wife died of an overdose. The review board said
Richard did not kill her but was negligent in his care.
Richard died 10 days later. Alone in bed.
From bleeding on the brain, they said.
We are such fragile bags of flesh.
Take care, little ones, take care.
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